Whatcha Got Cookin?
by rijane
Summary: Mick and Beth get a little hot in the kitchen


**Whatcha Got Cookin?**

"Hey there, sailor," Beth called. Music overlapped with the sizzle of a pan and knife chopped nearly in time with the plucks of the guitar.

"Medic, actually," Mick kissed the bopping blond.

She spun and dumped the diced peppers in time with the beat as Mick deposited his coat on the counter.

"You're up early, Medic Mick," Beth fingered his top buttons.

"I had to go see a man about a dog," Mick smiled as her oregano scented hands slipped inside his shirt. Her fingers played at the soft wash of skin above his groin. It tickled tightly before she grabbed his shirt tails and freed them from his pants. Her finger washed in swirls over him, her hips swaying to the song.

"I thought vampires weren't pet people," Beth grinned.

"It's a saying-"

Beth slammed a kiss on his lips, consuming his explanation. Mick had the echoing taste of crisp peppers, the dull acid of tomatoes. She grazed her lips over his and trailed toward his ear, behind it, a hushed breath. Her hands stayed busy, dipping to his pelvis and into the cool shadows of his pants.

"I need to stir the vegetables."

She set a last kiss to his jawline and turned to the stove, hips still swinging. Beth stirred the vegetables and chunks of chicken and hummed along with Hank.

Arms wrapped around her. "Hey, good lookin', whatcha got cookin'?"

He scanned the kitchen, open jars, stray vegetable remnants. "How about cooking something up with me?"

"Hmmm." Beth grabbed the chile powder, dashing it in at the whine of the guitar and twirling, the hem of her sundress in the air. She threw the tin into a pile on the island behind her, one arm outstretched to stir.

"Smells good," Mick matched hip to hip, buried his face in her neck.

"I'm sure I can find something tasty for you, too."

"I wasn't talking about the food." He took the wooden spoon from her and curled his other arm to pull her and her swishing skirts flush.

Beth wove her freed-fingers in his curls, leaving hot trails of pepper and spice, lips lingering along, breasts gliding across the cold of him.

"I think it's done." Mick turned the stove down and the sizzle retreated.

"I thought it was just getting started."

Beth ground against Mick, feeling him hard against her.

Mick grabbed her by the waist and plopped her onto the counter behind them, then kneed her legs open, sending the front of her skirt up her thighs, tanned from time on his rooftop. Without him, tragically.

"Mick, I'm sitting on onions," Beth squirmed. He lifted her, squealing, and brushed the space clear and her skirt clean.

"Better?" he sat her precariously at the edge.

"Mmm-hmm," she buried her face in the nook of his neck, humming with the music, vibrating against his skin. Her hands unbuckled, hurried at his buttons over his bulge, too many buttons. Beth liked zippers.

He rested heavy in her hand, as she moved up to his base and back down. Beth ran a thumb over the tip and he quivered. She leaned back and opened her thighs wide.

He sidled between her legs, knees knocking ratatat against the island. Mick slipped in as her pulse drove him forward.

From her perch, Beth felt the pressure build, the slow rocking. She wrapped her arms under his and tight across his back, pulling him closer, tighter, into her. His lips on breasts, between. She shuddered as he teased at her skin. Cold and hard and delicious.

Her legs wrapped around him, digging her heels into his thighs. Leaning back, back, until he was there, right there.

The room filled with the smell of sweat and sex and sizzling spices. Beats pushed her harder, faster, a crescendo. He shuddered, holding.

Something in her burst and she cried out.

"Beth, Beth," he whispered over her skin, collarbone to shoulder, lips reacquainting themselves with her curve. Her legs loosened. She inhaled, exhaled, breathing him in, as the world came back to her. He was hard and wet and pungent in her lungs.

Suddenly, she was in the air, Mick's arms tight around her, Beth's warm body blanketing Mick's. Lip covered teeth bit at his skin.

The song had changed, a loping melody and crying voice now.

"Your dinner is getting cold."

"Let it."


End file.
